Dead at First Sight

84 Wednesday 10 October

Jules de Copeland heard the shrill ring of the doorbell. He’d been expecting that, or a knock on the door, for the past half hour, ever since he had watched the man who’d been sat most of the day in his Volkswagen Polo parked in a visitor’s bay enter the building.

Either he was a police officer — which he doubted from his erratic behaviour — or, more likely and more dangerously, he had been sent here, as he’d suspected, by his own former employer, Steve Barrey. Either way he was confident the unwelcome visitor could not know, for certain, which apartment he was in.

Since renting this place, some weeks back, he had been careful not to engage with any other resident, except for the caretaker, a bolshy Irishman called Joe, who lived in a ground-floor flat and vented spleen to him about the landlord not spending enough money on maintenance of the place, nor giving him a pay rise for the past three years.

A bung of £500, palmed to the grateful man, had, Joe assured Copeland, bought him his omertà.

When Copeland had looked puzzled, the caretaker explained. Omertà was the Mafia code of silence. His one previous visit here had been a quick in and out, to provision it with enough food to last him many days.

A few hours ago Joe had phoned him, as he had promised he would if anyone came sniffing around looking for him. ‘A shortarse with an American accent just accosted me round the back of the building when I was putting out the wheelie bins. He said he was in town for a couple of days and trying to look up his old buddy, Jules de Copeland. He described you as a tall black fellow, but said he had lost your phone number and flat number. Said he wanted to surprise you. I told him there wasn’t no one of that description living here, and that I knew everyone. He’s a shifty-looking one. And if you want my opinion, he doesn’t look right in the head.’

On his desk, Copeland had the most sophisticated voice-changing apparatus on the market. It gave him a whole range of male and female accents, and a whole range of regional ones in several languages. He selected the one he had prepared for just this situation now.

As he did, the bell rang again, followed by a rap on the door. He tiptoed in his socks and peered through the spyhole.

Although the lighting in the corridor was dim, and his face was distorted, there was no question it was the man who had been watching the building.

From the other side of the door, Tooth heard a haughty female voice call out. ‘Yes, hello, who is this?’

Thrown, with his head spinning and see-sawing, he took a step back. Remembering the words of the woman in the grey onesie in the apartment diagonally opposite: I think, but I can’t be sure.

Maybe she meant the one next door to it?

The giddiness was returning. The walls were moving. It felt like the floor was rising, pushing him up, then it dropped away beneath him and he fell, full length, onto the carpet. Fighting not to throw up.

He heard a door open and smelled a waft of perfume. Before he could get to his feet a voice said, ‘Oh my God, are you all right?’

He peered up. A young, well-dressed Asian couple were staring down at him with concern.

‘Yeah, I’m... I’m good.’

‘Shall I call an ambulance?’ the man asked. ‘Do you need medical assistance?’

Tooth scrambled to his feet. Their faces were blurry. He tried to bring them into focus. He was swaying. ‘I’m... I’m good.’ He touched the wall to try to steady himself.

‘Are you sure?’ the woman said in a kindly voice.

‘Yeah, I just tripped, you know.’

He was conscious they were looking at him oddly.

‘I’m a doctor. You don’t look right to me,’ the man said.

‘No, really, I’m good.’

They stared at each other in silence. Tooth wished they’d just go away.

‘I just need some air.’ Thinking fast and hard, he jerked a finger at the nearest door, saying, ‘Just had a bit of an argument — you know — my girlfriend. Bit of air. Thought I’d go out and walk around for a bit.’

‘We’ll come down with you, make sure you’re OK.’

‘Right, yes.’

The lift took an interminable time to arrive. And even longer, it felt, to descend. All the time the couple were looking at him curiously.

‘I don’t smell alcohol,’ the man said. ‘Are you on any medication?’

‘No, I’m... you know... just... you know... shock. Upset.’

The lift reached the ground floor. Tooth stepped out. ‘We’re going on down to the basement,’ the woman said. ‘Shall we come out with you?’

‘Thank you, no, you are very kind. I’m fine, just need some air.’ The doors closed on them, thankfully.

He hurried across the lobby, feeling like he was encased in a swirling mist. And walked straight into the glass front door with a bang that shook every bone in his body, shot agonizing pain through his nose and sent him reeling backwards.

He sensed warm liquid running from his nose. Put his hand to his face, pulled it away and saw blood on it.

He’d broken his nose, he realized. Then he saw the jagged crack in the glass.

‘Jeez.’

He opened the door and stumbled out into the darkness and rain and strengthening sea breeze. His car was less than fifty metres away. It felt like it was at the other end of the planet as he zigzagged unsteadily towards it, like it was a homing beacon.

Finally reaching it, he clutched the front of the car to steady himself and worked his way along the side with his hands, like a drunk, until he reached the driver’s door. He fumbled in his pocket for the key, hit the button and pulled the door open, then slumped gratefully inside, slamming the door shut against the elements.

Shivering, he turned on the engine and put the heating to full blast. As warmth seeped through him, he closed his eyes.

He was woken, moments later it seemed, by a sharp rap on the window. His instant reflex reaction was to go for his gun. He stopped himself just in time. A figure was standing by his window, barely visible in the ambient lighting from the building and the street lights.

He lowered the window. A bolshy-looking shaven-headed man with a missing front tooth was peering at him in hostile recognition.

‘You?’

Tooth instantly recognized the Irish accent of the caretaker he’d spoken to by the wheelie bins. He stared back at him, helplessly.

‘What the feck are you doing? This is visitors’ parking. Get out of here before I call the police or the tow company. Clear off.’